//Chapter 4: Worked Over

This is Chapter 4 of an ongoing writing project. You should probably read Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 & Chapter 3 before reading this one. (Yes, I know that they're technically too short to be Chapters. It's just easier to track them, that way.)

Worked Over.

I look down into the murky alley puddle and I can see my reflection lookin' back at me. He's got a stupid grin on his face, like he knows something that I don't know and he ain't gonna tell me. He's just waitin' for me to figure it out, on my own. I'm there, bent over, admirin' my handsome face when the next punch hits me in the jaw with the force of a sledgehammer.

WHAM!

I rock back, ready to fall down, but I can't, because two pairs of strong arms hold me in place, to make sure that I take what's comin' to me. I hear a giggle in the darkness to my left. Small and girlish. The guy to my right, don't say nothin' at all.

A couple more punches straight into my gut, to get the point across.

WHAM!

POW!

BAM!

BIFF!

The last one knocks the air outta my lungs and I hear myself say, "Woof" and then I'm gaspin' for air like a Mississippi catfish. The big guy, who's workin' me over smiles a big toothy grin. His teeth are all white and strong. "This guy flosses," I think to myself, as I gasp for air.

"You been talkin' to the bee again," he says. He grabs my shirt collar and pulls me right up into his face. The slow trickle of blood comin' out of my mouth, oils up his knuckles, just fine. I hear a button pop off of my shirt and tinker down on the ground. "You ought to know better than to yap to the papers, ya jerk! You got a big mouth, Calvin. A mouth that big, makes a fella want to sock it in."

"Aw Shucks, Gravedigger, I didn't know you spent so much time, lookin' me over. See anything else you like?" I laugh and a tiny cloud of blood drops spatters his chin. He frowns at me, disappointed and rears back his head and headbutts me in the face. I hear the crack of his head connecting with my right cheekbone and know that's gonna smart tomorrow.

Gravedigger Bill and I have danced this dance before. We've beaten the Ever Lovin' Hell out of each other, down by the docks, behind Sam's bar and once we nearly killed each other in the Playground, over in Queertown. I remember him passin' out, as I strangled the life out of him with a swingset chain. Gravedigger is muscle for hire. But the rumor has it that he's turned gunsel for the District Attorney. Providing the man with late night comfort, in addition to doing his dirty work too. As much as the town frowns upon their "arrangement", people frown even more on settin' themselves up for a midnight alley beating. So, nobody says nothin' about them.

Except me. What can I say? The man's right. I gotta big mouth. I sometimes can't help talkin' about the things that rub me the wrong way. I got an over-developed sense of right and wrong and none of the smarts that it takes to ignore it all.

Gravedigger goes back to rearranging my guts for me and I look over his shoulder at the sleek blue Archer that's parked at the end of the alley. For the briefest second, I catch the orange flareup of a cigarette and make out the figure of a beefy, hairless man, sitting in there, watching me take my medicine. I know, without gettin' any closer that it's MeeHill, the District Attorney. I seriously wonder if his pants are down and if he's tuggin' his joint, to see me take my licks like this. I wouldn't be a bit surprised. That's how he plays it.

Blow after blow, I take from Gravedigger to my guts. I think he's cracked a rib. Again. But he keeps on plugging away, grunting with each punch. A happy, satisfied grunt. This is a guy who clearly enjoys his work. I expect him to break into song, he's so happy.

I slump down, lettin' my legs go to jelly. The two palookas holdin' me up, have to take all of my weight. Danny Felter, the gigglin' loon to my left stops gigglin' and digs his hands into my shoulder. To wake me up and stand back up, but it don't work. To my right, Karl Japeck, a minsky that I used ta go out drinkin' with, takes up some of the additional slack. I know, without lookin', that he has a toothpick stickin' out of his mouth. I've seen him stick that thing in a guys eyes before. He's a treacherous son of a bitch.

I go slack and they try to pick up the weight. Gravedigger stops in his work and looks back at the Archer for some guidance. I guess they ain't worked out whether they're supposed to beat the snot out of me or kill me. I get the impression that this was an impromptu dance. Not a whole lot of thought put into it.

So, I grab Felter by the balls and start crackin' some nuts. My dizziness was a ruse. A moment to catch my breath and to let them think I was done for. Truth is, I'm just gettin' warmed up. Through, his woolen trousers, I can feel Felters balls compress like a sack fulla oysters and he screams a full fledged woman's scream. Japeck and Gravedigger aren't sure what's going on as I still appear to be takin' a nap.

"My jewels! He's got my jewels, boys! Get him offa me!" screams Felter, who slaps me around the face and shoulders, like birds wings flutterin' inside a cage. I don't even feel em. Gravedigger moves in to punch my arm away from Danny Felter, but the chop he lays on my forearm isn't enough to break the hold, just add extra pull to the hold that I have on Felter, who screams again with renewed agony.

Japeck stabs me in the temple with his toothpick, "Let him go, you animal!" he intones in his think, Polish accent. The toothpick stays jabbed into my head, when I turn and look at him, mad as Hell. I use his hold on me to pull him close to me and I bite off a good chunk of his left cheek. He howls and grabs his face where I made him a new mouth and falls down and out of the fight. I hear the engine of the Archer rumbled to life. Looks like the D.A. isn't stickin' around to see how this ends.

I spit out the chunk of the Polok that is in my mouth, into Felters face and I hear it make a dim smack against his chin. His eyes are rollin' up in his head and I see that he's goin' to a happier place. I shove him backwards into a pile of trashcans and he grabs his groin, cupping it protectively and goes all quiet.

Which leaves me and the Gravedigger.

He steps back a bit, and pulls out a switchblade knife. It cocks into place. It gleams silver and sharp in the dim light of the alley.

"How's this going to go down, Mann? I got a blade," he says, "and all you've got is a gutful of fire. You want I should slit your throat for you?" he waves the knife menacingly at me.

"Shut up, Gravedigger," I spit out a mouthful of blood, mine and Japecks and stand straight up, cocking my neck. He's right, though, I feel like I've been hit by a bus. And ran over by a garbage truck. And shat on my an elephant. My bruises have got bruises. I'm in a bad way.

"This fight is over. Your employer has ditched. And the odds are not all together in your favor anymore. Not with these two nancies takin' a powder. I know you're a gun for hire. Well, you did your job. Now walk out of this alley and go collect your pay and never will we trouble each other anymore, tonight."

He thinks it over. I can see the gears turnin' behind his eyes. His smile has left with the long gone Archer and the absent District Attorney. Maybe he's thinkin' about the beating in the Playground again and considerin' whether he wants another one of those.

"So, what?" he asks, workin' it all out, "I just walk out of here?"

"Yeah, you do." I pull the toothpick out of my forehead and casually toss it over on Felter.

"That simple." he says.

"Yeah, that simple." I say. I wipe my bloody chin on my coat pocket. My guts are screaming at me. I want to throw up, but I ain't doin' it with Gravedigger still here. Behind me, Japeck runs back out of the alley and I see Gravedigger watch him go.

Gravedigger looks back at me and takes a step backwards. "Don't pull anything funny, Mann. I'm leavin' because I want to, not because it's your idea. You got the message that I was sent to give you. Just you know, if I was meant to kill you, you'd be dead right now."

"Sure, sure," I says, "Before you go, can I bum a smoke off of you? Your boys crushed mine, in the rumpus." I hold up the crushed pack and throw it over on the trash pile.

Gravedigger starts laughin'."Are you serious?" he says. "Sure, Calvin, I'll give you a smoke and a light, too." We don't talk while he offers me up a cheroot and then lights it for me. I don't even make eye contact with him, although I can tell that he's waitin' for me to. "You're a real piece of work, fella. Well, it's been a hoot!"

He puts away the knife and laughs at me, again. He tips his hat at me and turns to walk out of the alley. As soon as his back is turned, I reach down by the dumpster and grab my fallen roscoe and shoot the bastard, right in the back.

The gunshot sounds like an explosion in that tiny alley and Gravedigger goes down like a ragdoll. He don't even yell. I think he's too surprised. I guess he forgot my gun. And how he threw it down on the ground. Me? When I'm workin' a guy over, I put his gun in my pocket. That's just me, though. I'm funny that way.

I walk over to Gravedigger, who is twisted around, reaching back for the bullet in his shoulder that he can't reach. I stand over him and reach into his shoulder holster and pull his gun free. He doesn't even fight me. He just looks up at me, with hatred in his eyes. I find a two shot derringer in his right sock. I take that one too.

"Aaaaagh! Goddammit! You shot me, you bastard. What kind of low-life scumbag shoots a guy in the back, when he's walkin' away from a fight?" he spits out at me.

"This one does, baby. This one does. Gravedigger, I want you to give your employer a message from me, okay? Can you do that?" He looks back at me, mad as Hell, but not answering. I grab him by the collar and bend down over him, gettin' in good and close. "Are you ready for it, Bill? Because I want you to be paying attention." Again, no answer. "Well, here it is." and I let loose my tortured gutful of partially-digested Chinese food. Waves of chewed noodles hit him in the face and chest and he starts screamin', which is a terrible idea, because it leaves his mouth open and I fill it for him and that sets him off and he is throwin' up on himself and I'm lettin' loose on him and between convulsions, I start laughin'. When I'm emptied out completely, I am full on braying like a jackass. I walk away from the sodden Gravedigger, who is screaming and weeping and wretching in the alley way behind me. Just a mess.

I take a deep draw off the cheroot that he gave me and the scented smoke of it fills my lungs and I feel dangerous and alive. Like I could do or say anything to anyone that I want to. I really am an animal, right then and there. I could really do some damage to somebody, if I have a mind to. But there's no opposition in the alley behind me and I don't feel like breakin' into the District Attorney's house out on Southport Estates. So, I smoke the cigarette and start walkin' over to Sam's place. I think I'll get myself a beer and start treatin' these wounds with liquor..

I like this cheroot brand of cigarette. It smells exotic and strong. European, I guess. I gotta pick up a pack of these on my way to the bar. They satisfy.



The Broken Jade Gambit: A Calvin Mann Mystery continues in Chapter 5: A Late Arrival At The Party. Read it here.

10 Things That Make It A Crappy Day.

God, what a Craptastic Day.

I feel terrible today. Physically. Emotionally. Financially.

The only thing I can take solace in, right now, is my enormous penis. And that’s like being glad to have a nice whaling harpoon, when you live in Utah. Sure, it’s nice, but when’re you going to use it?

I digress.

We might not have talked recently, you and I. And you might be wondering what could I possibly have to be down about. In order to clarify the situation, I’ve prepared a checklist of 10 Short Things that Make Me Miserable, (today).

#1 – It’s raining outside and has been all day. The sky is a palid shade of grey and it’s everywhere you look, downtown. Is there anything sadder than a wet concrete building?

#2 – I can’t get her to answer my emails. And I want to hear from her. Hear how her trip went and how she’s doing and whatever else she wants to say. I want to be around her and I can’t, for reasons that no one will explain to me. It’s very frustrating.

#3 – I’m sick, goddammit. Congested head, runny nose and sneezes. I want to be home, sick in bed.

#4 – I hate my job. I can’t remember what it was like to work at a place that I liked. Probably the comic book shops in college. That was pretty great. A little boring, sometimes, but generally pretty great.
This new job always feels like I’m just scant seconds away from being fired. My bosses are not very supportive. Or forgiving.

#5 – The theater has moved on without me. I suspected that would happen. Things are moving along. Jobs are getting done by the people who do them. There’s a loop out there and I’m outside of it. I knew that this was going to happen. I just didn’t expect to be reminded of it, as much as I am.

#6 – I’m busted. Broke. Poor. Impoverished. Until Friday. Which is payday. Being broke completely eliminates your options. There’s no “I think I will go see what used DVDs are for sale, today.” On your social calendar. Not when you can’t afford to buy anything. A resolution is in sight, though. It’s just been a long time in coming.

#7 – I feel like I’m wasting all of my time, planning out and performing theater shows that are forgotten, almost as soon as they’re done. The temporary nature of show performance is wearing me down. I require something more permanent.

#8 – My home PC is still busted. (See #6) I miss playing City of Heroes. And farting around on the Internet. And burning CDs and listening to music on Itunes. And porno, GLORIOUS porno. I miss porno. (My imagination is only so powerful. After a while, I require visual stimulus.)

#9 – I hate my body. I hate my thinning hair. I hate my pot belly. I need to lose weight, gain hair and learn how to dance. Then, I WILL be the Make Out King. I would like to be the Make Out King. I can’t be the Make Out King, looking like this.

#10 – I’m exhausted. I haven’t been sleeping well. (Because of the sickness) I’ve fallen asleep three times at my desk and once, sitting on the toilet in the bathroom. Yep, I fell asleep, mid-poo. I am one VERY tired boy.

There.

Now you can be miserable too!

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

(goddammit)

Mr.B

Bad News, Fellas.

Recently, my friend Jessica and I were discussing "French Kissing" and the origins of the word. What's particularly "French" about sticking your tongue in someone's mouth and wiggling it around? When did it earn that name? And Did no one ever do that before the French came along and showed off their stuff? Or was it called something else beforehand? Who invented French Kissing, anyways?

You know, the usual stuff that you discuss with pretty girls.

I started googling around, looking for information on the topic. I ran into a ton of articles that offered to make me a better kisser, but scant information in the way of the etymology of the term. Of course, whenever I see an article that promises to teach me how to be a better kisser, I check them out.

Which is how I stumbled onto Lynn Snowdens article for a "teen advice" column. It's called "How to Kiss a Woman." Catchy title, eh?

Of course, once I read the first line, I nearly shit my pants.

Here it is.

It has been theorized that a woman decided within five minutes of meeting a man whether or not she will have sex with him. Possibly true, but there is one catch. Most women I know, myself included, may initially decide we'll have sex with a guy, but when we find out he's a bad or a mediocre kisser, we change our minds entirely. We decide we will never have sex with this guy.

Are you fucking kidding me?

FIVE MINUTES?!?

You gals are deciding within the first five minutes of meeting me, whether we're going to be knocking boots or not? Really?!? Seriously?!?

Goddammit!

Because I make a LOUSY first impression. From a distance, I give off the appearance of "Someone who looks like he's ready for a nap." And things don't improve, as you move in closer. Upon closer inspection, you'll see the thin hair and the wrinkled forehead and over-sized ears. And if I find you attractive at all, my forehead starts to sweat like a teenagers. Clammy hands, too. And my figure doesn't encourage a woman to climb all over me, so much as it makes you want to smack a sandwich out of my hands.

Once you dig past all of this, though, there ARE some fine qualities. But they're not evident IN THE FIRST FIVE MINUTES!!!

Christ!

I was never a good auditionee in college. I was always terrible at it. I never knew how to sell myself. And I couldn't bring myself to present some sort of hirable, lunkhead persona, to get an acting job. A TERRIBLE auditionee. I'm sure that auditors, sitting in the house thought, "I don't want to hire him for my musical theater. Nor would I ever want to fuck him."

And this is more of the same...

Look ladies, I have got to think that this theory, this "I'll know in five minutes" theory can't be working for you. Unless you meet a guy, WHILE HE'S HAVING SEX with someone who is built like you, you have NO idea what package you're buying. (Literally.) I know guys who are terrified about dancing in public, who are voracious sex-hounds in the bedroom. You would be missing the opportunity of having these Sexy Beasts give you the loving of a lifetime, if you passed them over at the bar.

From my perspective, I just can't move that fast. Sure, there have been some bloody hideous women that I KNEW that I wasn't going to get with. Horrible wildebeests, they were. But they were few and far between. With most girls, I have to talk to them and get to know them, to decide whether I'm giving them a tussle or not. It's not always "how you look", so much as it is "what you say". And "how you say it." That's what I am looking for.

(Well, that and a nice set of boobs.)

And I can't accurately judge all of that in five minutes.

Once you get past that nutsack-receding first paragraph, Snowden has some interesting things to say about kissing. And some amusing comparisons to make. (For Example, did you know that Harrison Ford is considered to be a bad kisser? Neither did I!) At the very least, it's a charming article.

But that opening paragraph, though. That's a terrible shocker to us slow-moving types.

Ordering another drink, with a shaky hand,
Mr. B



PS. For answers about the origins of French Kissing and some other quaint names for it (I will immediately begin using the Northern English slang term, "Doing a Frankie" for French Kissing. I love that.), please check THIS entry of the wikipedia.

A Very Important Issue Resolved.

You're probably sitting there wondering what's on the desktop of my computers.

I realize that this is something that troubles most of the youth of America.

So, let me assuage your understandable concerns and just SHOW YOU what I look at, every day.

This is the desktop at work...

I got that from an article in the Trib. about Kurt Vonnegut's brief work for the paper as a photographer. To see the image, in it's entirety, check out this "word" blog entry.
That's a true life picture of a young couple out on a date to a Chicago jazz club in the 1940's. I love the look of expectation on the guy's face. The girl seems lost in the music. And the band quietly plays on in the background.
The big black field on the left is where I toss my desktop icons. I try to keep them down to only three rows of crap.

This is the desktop of my home computer.

It is, of course, the Superman Shield. Updated for the recent movie, Superman Returns. On my big-ass 19 inch screen, at home, it looks lovely. Almost 3D.

I'm glad we could finally put these very important questions to rest.

Cheers,
Mr.B

"HOLD FAST"

Right now, as I type this, the words "Hold" and "Fast" are written in ink across the knuckles of my hands. "Hold" is on my right hand. "Fast" is on my left. I wrote them there, myself, last night, before our show at The Playground.

I was sitting in the house with my teammates, listening them chat about whatever was on their minds. With everyone else chatting about stuff, I was free to get the lay of the land. Looking around, I saw that it was going to be a light house. A small audience. And none of them were there to see us. It was going to be a rough night.

Small audiences aren't a bad thing, per se. They're a quiet thing. It almost seems as if they are aware of their small size and are loathe to laugh outloud at the things that amuse them. The only thing worse than a small house, is a small house of other improvisers. They sit, quietly in the dark, rethinking your moves and wishing that they were somewhere OTHER THAN the seat that they're in. Drawing a laugh out of them, can be harder than pulling teeth.

One half of our small audience, last night, were other improvisers.

Which made it not a "hostile" audience, so much as a quiet, cynical, hard-to-impress audience.

I had a feeling that it was going to be a difficult show. I asked Kathy if she had a pen on her and while they continued talking about rent and apartment searching, I wrote "Hold Fast" on my knuckles to remind myself to "hang onto" the show, as hard as I could. Because checking out early or playing with anything less than everything that I had, would surely lessen the show, for myself and for my team.

In ancient times, mariners used to get the words "Hold Fast" tatooed on their knuckles as a Good Luck Charm. It reminded them (and the other men around them) that sometimes, the sea is rough. Sometimes, it will knock you and your boat around and threaten to toss you overboard. Your only hope of survival, in those hard, terrifying times, is to hold fast to your ship and her rigging as hard as you can. Because oftentimes, a man overboard is a dead man. From exhaustion and drowing.

The same theory can be applied to Improv shows, I think. Sometimes, it's going to be rough out there. Confusing, messy, ugly, incoherent. These are the waves that buffet a show's one and only voyage. The only hope of regaining control of the ship and safely docking at your unknown destination is to hang onto the rigging (and each other) as tightly as possible and end the show, together.

Stay focused. Stay sharp. Keep listening. Catch opportunities, when they present themselves to you.

I don't know. The metaphor is very clear to me.
Maybe it is, to you, too.

This guy speaks a little bit more about the "Hold Fast" tatoo and shows pics of his getting one. (I hope he forgives me for posting one of his pics below.) Maybe it'll be a little more clear, when you read what he wrote about that particular tatoo.

Cheers,
Mr.B

Found Money.

YESTERDAY...
Yesterday, I was standing in the parking lot of the Jewel-Osco, wrapping up a call to my roommate, before I went inside to grab some stuff. Ironically, we were talking about the recent addition of Showtime and Starz to our cable service. Basically, for $14 a month extra, we pick up both channels, by upgrading our package. (If we added either one of them to our service, individually, they would cost $16 apiece.) So, we basically got Starz for $-2 a month. (Joe wanted Showtime. He wants to watch Weeds.)

As we were wrapping up the call, I looked down and there, tucked behind the parking space bumper was a ten dollar bill.

"Holy Crap, I just found a ten dollar bill!" I said. I quickly pocketed it.

"Good for you! Congratulations!" said Joe. And he went back to talking about cable.

I half listened, because I was surveying the immediate area, looking for the envelope full of $100s that I was sure was there, somewhere. I gave Joe the requisite "Yeah"s and "Uh-huh"s, but I was intently scanning the entire hedgerow. When I was satisfied that there was no more stray cash in the area, I wrapped up the call with him and walked inside to do my grocery shopping. Ten dollars richer!

It might've only been $10, but I felt like a million bucks for finding it!

ONCE...
Once, I saw two grown men run and dodge through moving traffic on Ashland Ave, grabbing up one dollar bills that they saw on the side of the road. I don't know how much they found out there, but they laughed and clapped each other on the back and ran out to grab another errant dollar bill, over and over again. Pure, childlike pleasure, mixed with total disregard for personal safety.

All for a few bucks...

ANOTHER TIME...
Another time, I accidentally dropped a $100 bill at the charge card machine, in the train terminal at Midway airport. I didn't realize that it was gone until I was three or four stops down on the blue line.
I debated whether I should go back and look for it or not. On the one hand, someone probably had already grabbed it up and shoved it in their pocket. As I would've done. On the other hand, it might've blown behind the machine and it's just sitting there waiting for me. I imagined my very conservative, very sensible dad saying, "You have to at least go back and look for it. At the very least. You might even find it."
I went back.
It was gone.
End of Story.

I hope the finding of my $100 was a tremendous relief to whoever found it. I hope that it came to them, in a moment of urgent need. That would lessen the blow of the loss. At the very least, I hope that it made them as happy as my $10 made me.

ALWAYS...
There's something undeniably intoxicating about finding cash floating around in the street. Everyone, be they millionaire or pauper, pauses, snatches up the lost cash and then scans the immediate area for extra cash. It feels like the old Easter Egg hunt, all over again! Cash! Moolah! Greenbacks! Yours for the taking! And all you have to do is pick it up! That sentiment strikes people at their very core. It's universal. I think that pleasure is enjoyed, around the world.

SOME DAY...
Some day, when I'm terribly rich from publishing all of these dumb blog entries, I'm going to go pull $200 in $1 bills from an ATM and find a comfy seat at the railing of some little cafe, here in Chicago. I'll order a nice meal and a bottle of wine and sit there, watching the people go by. Casually eating and sipping the wine. A harmless, old man.
When no one is looking, I'll crumple a dollar bill or two together and casually toss them out onto the sidewalk in front of my table.
When someone notices it and snatches it up and begins looking around for the brothers and sisters of the found money, I'll sip my wine and enjoy the pleasure of watching them in their Adult Easte Egg hunt.
If they try to pin the cash on me, I'll deny that it's mine.
If they catch me watching them, I'll say that I was trying to figure out what they dropped. When they tell me, in their excited state, I'll be happy for them, with them.
And when they walk away and nobody is looking, I'll pull out another dollar bill or two and repeat the whole process all over again.

I can't think of a nice way to spend $200, a bottle of wine (or two) and an afternoon. Sitting at a cafe table, making random people deeply, deeply happy.

That would be a very good day, indeed.

Cheers,
Mr.B

What's Canada's problem with Facial Explosions?

I just stumbled across this article on The Smoking Gun. It's a list of the titles of Adult Entertainment Videos which are forbidden in Canada for violations of national obscenity laws.

I have to say that I wasn't surprised to see that "Facial Explosions" 1,5 & 9 were banned. Truly, they are the filthiest chapters of the entire "Facial Explosions" saga. I am relieved that "Facial Explosions" 2,3,4, 6,7 & 8 were all perfectly allowable. Those really are the best chapters anyways. You really get a sense of the grand, sweeping Facial Explosions storyline, when you view the permissible chapters. 1,5 & 9 are really all just exposition and then denouement.

Enjoy the wide variety of forbidden porn titles. I think they're actually pretty funny. A couple of them made me chuckle outloud.

Cheers,
Mr.B

PS. If any of my Canadian readers need me to forward a black market copy of "Coffee Ron's: Go Fuck Yerself" on VHS, do let me know. Truly, it's cinema verite. The man does things with the coffee bean that would make Juan Valdez whisper a Hail Mary and cross himself against such evil acts. Also, there's a lot of sex.

So, there's that.

The Trouble With Dating Cheerleaders.

Remember in November 2005, when these two ladies caused a bit of a ruckus inside a Tampa, Florida restaurant bathroom?



The little lady on the left is Renee.
Her pal on the right is Angela.

This is their story.

(And yes, they're both terribly, terribly drunk in those mugshots.)

At the time of the incident, both ladies were NFL cheerleaders for the Carolina Panthers. According to the police report that I just read, Renee and Angela were in Tampa, watching a Panther away game with some other cheerleaders. (The cheerleading squad didn't perform at away games.) Late in the evening, after drinking nearly two cheerleader and a half's worth of alcohol, the young lovers snuck away to the ladies room of Banana Joe's, for a little intimate time.

Angela, the brunette, was reportedly so drunk that she had trouble standing. But she didn't have any trouble, balancing in a standing position on the bathroom toilet, while Renee, the blonde, went down on her. (Renee was very supportive of Angela, allowing her to use her face for a bicycle seat.)

Renee must've been a bit of a slow hand, because they were in there for quite a while. A line of frustrated ladies formed inside the bathroom and down the hall. Word quickly spread that these two "whores" were "going down on each other" in the bathroom. The ladies in line could tell that was what was happening, because Angela's head and shoulders were visible above the top of the stall. Here eyes were rolled up into here head and she said, for those observing, "I'm cumming." Bravo, Renee. Well done!

After the loving couple shared a quick kiss and snuggle in the stall, they exited to find a line of pissed off ladies. Someone made a rude comment and Renee (once a lover, now a fighter) hauled off and punched the person that she thought had insulted her. The punchee was so angered by the attack that she grabbed Renee, wrestled her to the ground and detained her until the police could arrive. Angela let loose with an impressive string of profanities. Renee, when arrested, impressed the police officers by slipping out of her handcuffs. (She has tiny wrists. And it was funny at the time.)

Eventually, the shenanigans ceased and the officers subdued these two Hellcats. The true life Russ Meyers adventure was over.

Except for the once detail, which I just found out about, reading THIS article over on The Smoking Gun. On this page, the arresting officer says in the next to last item ...

At the request of [Renee], I made a courtesy call to her boyfriend in Charlotte, NC. for her and advised him of the arrest and provided him with contact information for the Hillsborough County Correctional Facility.

What a terrible phone call to receive, huh?

Imagine, you're home with friends, after having just watched the Panthers play Tampa Bay and the phone rings. It's the police in some other state. They've arrested your sexy-ass little girlfriend (the cheerleader that you brag to your friends that you're having sex with) and her little friend. Because she's drunk, punched out some random lady because she was mad that they gave her grief FOR EATING OUT ANOTHER CHEERLEADER IN THE BATHROOM OF BANANA JOE'S!!!

Call me "insensitive".
Call me "self-centered."
Call me "conservative."

But that phone call is the beginning of the end of my part in that relationship. I don't have a whole lot of "rules" when I get into a relationship. But one of them is "Don't have me find out that you're cheating on me and also a bit of a lesbian, by a phone call from the police." I guess I'm a bit of a jerk, that way.

If we're dating and you develop a taste for "cheerleader", well, this can be worked into the arrangement. That's something that we can explore together. With a trained professional. And in locations much more comfortable than perched atop a Banana Joe's bathroom toilet. Heck, I'll do it with you. I don't want to crush your dreams. I want you to explore them, while I watch. Is that so wrong?

Ah well, Sometimes Porn Movies tell the truth.

Be forewarned, that this sort of heartbreak is in store for you if you are planning on dating a cheerleader any time soon.

Or a lonely housewife.

Or your sisters, busty friend who wears lipstick all the time and who is REALLY enjoying that bratwurst.

Or the twins who need to use your shower, because theirs is all stopped up with lubricant.

Or the cute girls with pigtails, who just want to wash your car, mister!

Dispensing Lessons in Love since 1985,
Mr.B

So beautiful...

A friend of mine stumbled upon her profile on MySpace.

He mentioned it in the truck, as we drove through the city. A light rain pattering across the windshield. He was smoking a cigarette. I hung my arm out the window, enjoying the cool summer breeze. Instantly, he had my attention.

He elaborated further. Her profile lead to her private website and that's where the action was. On her private website, she had galleries posted, which featured her nude art modeling pictures. Scores of them, he said. Nude, he said.

I thought I better take a look at them.

I wasn't prepared to be impressed. She's a lovely girl, long-legged and miles of soft white skin. She has these perfect little breasts that still point optimistically forward. Her neck is long and lean. Her eyes are light blue pools that a man could drown in. She moves with a grace that men can't help but comment upon. And her smile is sheer bliss. A real dazzler. All that aside, I know this girl too well to get lost in all of that stuff.

I know this girl. We're friends. We've ridden the train together and chatted about small, pointless things and also the big challenges in the world. She has shared genuine fears of hers with me. I listened and then offered the comfort that I had on me, at the time.

I know her husband and from what little I see of him, I really like him. We have a lot in common. (Aside from his sexy, little wife.) We're both old comic nerds and we love Special Edition DVDs and shopping for cheap, used movies.

She and I perform in a show together. And have been, for over a year now. A long-standing performance relationship. And in my capacity as her fellow cast member, I've seen her in every possible configuration of undress. Sometimes, I catch myself checking her out. Most times, I let it go, un-commented upon. I thought that I was over beinf impressed with her naked form.

But in these pictures, the ones in her online gallery, she's absolutely, 100%, heart-breakingly stunning. She wears shadows like other women wear silk. It drapes across her naked form, intimately. Her delicate skin photographs well and she looks like some sort of lithe animal, watching you and judging you from afar. Interested, Engaged and a little bit untouchable. Good Christ, but she's lovely.

Yes, they were erotic. Not stroke-pics, these really were art. My mind was engaged as much as my libido was. I looked at picture after picture. Sometimes, she was a distant figure. Other times, the camera was close enough to see every pore and strand of hair. In every one of them, she clearly was the most beautiful thing in the picture. She was comfortable with her nakedness in a way that invites you to look her over and appreciate her.

I was looking at her in a new way. As much as I wanted to make love to her, I wanted to write her a poem, just as badly. (So, I came here and recorded this, remaining at enough of a distance from her that I preserve her anonymity.)
I won't treat her differently, the next time that I see her. And I won't make a move on her, because I don't want to open that particular door. But here, now, in the privacy of this post and this browser search on this computer, I worship her naked form. I quietly, resolutely adore her.

Besides, I would have to confess that the reality of actual sex with her would be a short evening of profuse apologies from me and a frustrated walk home for her.

Sometimes, it flows both ways...

I haven't mentioned Derek in my blog before.

My relationship with him is sort of complex and by discussing it, I run the risk of painting myself in false colors of saintliness that I don't deserve. But I had a conversation with him yesterday that shifted my world to the left a little bit. I wanted to share it here.

Derek is homeless.

On most days, you can find him outside the Cozi, located at the corner of Washington and Franklin, shaking a cup for change. For a time, he sold Streetwise, but I think he lost his license for that. Because he went back to just shaking the cup. He has a quiet demeanor about him. He doesn't yell out or hit passerbys with the same patter for every person ("Help the homeless. Gahblessyou. Help the homeless. Gahblessyou.") Derek quietly shakes his cup and if you make eye contact with him, he will smile sheepishly at you and wait to see if you make a move to put something into it. A quiet, simple, passive human contact. If you can't help or don't want to, you walk away without feeling condemned by your choice.

I guess people have preferences about how they want to interract with the homeless in this city. If you like the singing, dancing variety, we have those. If you like the aggressive, go-getum types, we have them too. If you prefer yours to be genuinely handicapped and visibly living a hard life, you can get that, as well. I tend to shy away from and actively avoid the REALLY aggressive guys. There's a guy under a construction awning over on Randolph, who, if you pass him by without adding change to his cup, will begin swinging his fists at the air behind your head. Punching something that represents you, more than actually IS you. That guy scares the Hell out of me.

I like Derek, though. And his quiet way.

It took me nearly four or five months to acnowledge his existence. I would rush right by him, avoiding eye contact and and indeed, any contact whatsoever. I think someone, somewhere told me about how "giving the homeless money, is NOT helping them. You should give them information on counseling and advise them to rehabilitate themselves and rejoin society as productive members." Or some such bullshit like that.

One day, walking up to him, with a coin purse full of change, I stumbled onto a personal philosophy that better reflected my world view.

Strip away class, race, age, economics and history and reduce this argument to the simplest basics and the answer is clear.

I have Some.

Not Much, but Some.

He has None.

He needs Some.

Occasionally, I have Some To Spare.

When I can, I will give him Some of my Spare.

When I can't give him Some, I will still give him Attention and Care.

Sometimes it really is as simple as that...

On that day, walking to him, I slipped him a small handful of the change that I had. But more importantly, I stopped and asked him his name. He said it was "Derek". And he looked like I had given him something very, very valuable. I told him my first name and we shook hands. When I walked away from him to catch the train home, I said, "See you tomorrow." And that expressed a message of hope and value. It said, "I liked seeing you today. And I look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

I believe that those values are critical to the health and well-being of the human soul. Somewhere out there, someone cares about you. I think that has critical value to every human being.

And Derek and I have enjoyed this small, tentative friendship for almost a year and a half now. I always say "Hi" to him, when I pass. If the stoplight catches me, we stop and chat for a bit. He gives me absolutely accurate weather forecasts for the next week. (Weather is of critical interest to someone who is outside all the time.) He also loves the cubs and tells me when something good happens to them. This season, they haven't given him too much to be happy about.

I call him "D", short for Derek. It's an affectionate nickname that I have for him. Sometimes we high five or just shake hands when I pass by.

During the really hot two weeks that we suffered in July, I grabbed him a bottled water from the 7-11, when I happened to pass him by at lunchtime. When I can, I try and grab him a sandwich from the Jimmy Johns. If I'm tight on cash, I grab him a loaf or two of the bread and hand that off to him, on my way back by. He always politely accepts these small gifts and doesn't rip into them, in front of me. And he doesn't emotionally beat me up for indulging myself in this presumptuous manner. And he doesn't give me the stink eye, if I don't bring something to him. I do what I can, when I think of it. He appreciates the gestures and in our way, we are friends.

Yesterday, I didn't get out of work until nearly 6:30pm. Downtown was pretty quiet then. The major rushes from where I work to the train stations had subsided and there were only a few people out on the streets. Rather than jingling his cup, Derek was sitting on the fire-hydrant, watching the cars go down Washington st. Just sitting. Resting. He had on a clean t-shirt with the U.S. Postal Service's Eagle on it. And baby blue seatpants. His sneakers were clean and he had on a cubs ballcap.

"Hey, D, how's it going." I asked him. I slipped him the change that I had on me.

"I'm fine. Just resting a bit. I was in the hospital for two days, this week." he quietly said. I had to lean in to hear him over the passing cars.

"No kidding. What was wrong?" I asked. My light changed to let me cross and I let it go. I would catch the next one.

Derek began telling me about kidney problems that he's always had. Runs in the family, apparently. He named his disease, something that I'd never heard of, too long a name to remember. And then he told me about his medication.

"And without any sort of insurance, hospital stays are pretty expensive. My medication, here he said the name but I've forgotten it, is big. A big blue pill and I have to take one a day. And do you know that they cost me $9 a pill? I know a pharmacist who will sell them to me at cost. Which is $6 a pill. But that's still a lot of money," he said.

"Jesus, that IS expensive. A pill, a day. At 6 bucks a pop, that's $42 bucks a week. Things are screwed up in our country, when medicine is as expensive as it is. You'd think that we live in a society that put the health of it's citizenry above basic profit."

"Yeah, you'd think," he said. "Listen, can you do a guy a favor?"

And here came the sales pitch. Regardless of the genuine goodwill that I feel for Derek, some things are unavoidable. It doesn't hurt to ask.

"Sure, D. What can I do for you?"

"I was wonderin' if you had just $18 that you could spare to me. That would mean a hot meal and my meds for today and tomorrow."

As it turned out, $18 was precisely what I had in my wallet. And because of bad math on my part, it was all that I have to live on, until the next payday. (I have a wee bit o cash coming in on Mondays, the coach's fee and I think another friend can spot me some cash until the first.) But for now, right now, the checking account is empty and the wallet is light.

And that's what I told him. I shared with Derek my frustration with my former landlord. The guy who asked me to move out early, so that he could renovate my apartment into storage for himself and his fiance. And when another apartment was found, he refused to let me break my lease early. I've paid rent on an empty apartment for June and July. And he's using my security deposit to cover my August rent. My current roomate covered my July rent in our apartment, but I'll eventually pay him back. The end result is that for the time being, I'm broke. On the first, bills get paid and I am flush again.

I apologized to Derek, for not having anything extra to spare right now. He understood.

"Hey, it's no problem. I thought I would ask. That's terrible what your landlord did to you. Is that legal?" he asked.

"Yeah, actually it is. I read my lease for some loophole and I couldn't find one." I leaned against the lightpost next to him, a little bummed out by the whole dumb story.

"That's tough, man. That's really, really tough." he said, "Listen, if you ever need a few bucks and I'm out here, let me know. I'll see what I can't get together for the both of us."

...

...

...

I thanked him. What an enormous offer of generosity from him. As I am sitting here, remembering his offer, I am nearly speechless. A day later and the selflessness that he showed me, still moves me.

This man, he lives a very hard life. I don't know where he sleeps at night. I don't know what he does for food when he's hungry. Or if he has family. Or friends. So many of the doors of the world that we know, are closed to him. He can't flirt up some pretty girl when he sees her. He can't go see a movie on the weekend on a whim. There are no movies waiting on his DVR for him. He doesn't fart around on the internet all day long. He can't keep a pet. Nearly all of his interaction with other human beings is demoralizing and frequently painful.

And yet, he has the inner strength, to offer help to a overfed, pampered white guy that probably doesn't appreciate how good he has it.

I would be lying if it wasn't a small blow to my pride to have a homeless guy offer to loan me cash. I sure as Hell, fell into the trap of classes and the unspoken caste system of our modern world. And when I realized what I was feeling the pride that didn't hear the generosity of his offer, I felt ashamed by my ignorance.

I thanked him for the offer. I wished him well. I had a train to catch. I told him that I would see him tomorrow. On my way by him, I patted him on the back. A friendly gesture of appreciation.

It wasn't until I was on the train home that I had a second to think about the conversation that we'd had. I'd never given so much of my personal background to Derek before. And obviously, he had never made an offer like that before. As certain as I was of our mutual roles in each others lives, I was the giver, he was the taker, Derek had reversed the roles. By keeping things on the basic level that I approach him with.

I had a Need. And he wanted to help me out.

Sometimes, it really is as simple as that...

Sometimes, it flows both ways...

Lesson learned.

Mr.B

The Comic Book Habit.

Ouch. This one hits close to home. Substitute "Xmen3" for "Spiderman" and you pretty much nail me, with that one.



-with love and thanks to Kathy B for passing that onto me. (and also a little bit of a "screw you" for thinking first of me, when you read about 30 year old comic book nerds.)-

This comic comes from the fine folks over at "Toothpaste for Dinner". You can google them to see more. (I would provide a handy link, but then that might lead them back to me and I don't want to offend them by posting one of their cartoons without permission.)

Cheers,
Mr.B

Last night, I kissed a girl.

The Original Plan was to go see a movie in the park, drink wine and eat cheese and crackers, while Jack Lemmon and Shirley MaClaine romped in "The Apartment". But then the city said, "No booze in the park" and then I said, "Hey Pretty Girl, if you don't call me back, I'm making other plans" and the solution that she offered was "bring wine or beer to my place and we will rent a movie."

And so we did.

I got to her neighborhood around 6pm, after a short jaunt on the northbound train. I walked to the nearby liquor store and picked up some supplies. The whole way there, we flirted via text messages.

"Also, I forgot to mention that I think that you are lovely." I told her.

She was adamant that we go into this as friends, and let things develop as they may and not assume that a relationship or sex is already on the offering table. And that's a fair thing to say. Who wants to walk into something, resigned to being a foregone conclusion? Isn't the discovery the best part? I prepared a very funny bit whereupon I would see her and offer my hand for the platonic shaking.

The door opened. She walked into the room. I offered my hand and a big smile and she batted it away and gave me a big hug. I didn't mind the sacrifice of the bit. The hug was pretty grand.

We made a quick trip to the video store. She looked for a movie for us. I spent the entire time we were there, getting used to her voice and her look, again. Five months since I saw her last. Her hair color wasn't the only change. She's stronger now. More confident. Less frantic. The changes are all very attractive. She picked "The Exorcist". A movie that I hadn't seen in ten or more years. She had never seen it. We are in for a good scare.

Back at the apartment, we forgot the movie and got down to the business of getting to know each other again. We drank slowly. She smoked. We told stories and little jokes. We teased each other in little, loving ways. Nothing made me happier than when she would reach across and kick me with her little feet. I acted as if I was much more hurt by the kicks than I really was. Flirting.

3 and a half hours went by and we talked about everything large and small. Upcoming movies. Old family stories. Funny sex stories. She threw her bottle cap at nearby roosting pidgeons. They fluttered away, perturbed. We both laughed at that.

The sun set and we stood at her deck balcony and looked out onto the cityscape. Only the radio antennae of the Sears Tower were visible. Planes slowly moved through the sky. The clouds turned deep blue and then orange and then red as the sun set.

We went inside.
We began the movie.

During the slow parts, we made little jokes and amused each other. I made no efforts to push myself on her. And like a cat, she appreciated the easiness and came over to curl up in my lap. I stoked her hair and watched the Devils movie.

Later, she switched positions and I held her ankles in my lap.

Later still, she moved again and my hand rested on her hip.

Even Later, she rolled back around fell asleep, leaning up against me. My big hand wrapped entirely around her skinny little forearm. There she stayed, napping lightly, until the movie was over and the credits ran completely through. I didn't crawl out from under her, until the movie was over and the screen was blank. I shut down all of the electronics and crawled back over to her.

I said her name once, but she was completely asleep. Her lip curled a few times, like she was about to bite whoever she was dreaming about. I stopped saying her name and contented myself by looking down lovingly at her and stroking her hair again. So soft. Her face was so young and fair. I was aware, as she slept of her youth. And my age. My face never looks that untroubled, when I sleep.

She slowly woke up, never opening her eyes. She was coherent enough to explain to me that I couldn't stay the night. I agreed. And that I shouldn't expect much from her, early on. I promised not to. And that nothing is certain and that she might flake out on me, at any time. I said that I understood. The whole time, she never opened her eyes, once. From the depths of wherever she was in Dreamland, she was still sending messages of caution and care.

I thanked her for a lovely evening and asked her to lock the door behind me, as there were "crazies, out there in the world!" I stood up, bent low and kissed her once on her forehead. I left, locking the door behind me.

A perfect evening with a pretty girl. And our one and only kiss, came late at night, just as I was leaving. She may not even remember it. With no promises of future evenings spent together and no promises of future kisses, that one will have to do. But this isn't a post about What Might Not Be. This is a post about What Was. And How Sweet It Was. And How Much It Meant To Me.

A day later, it still strikes me as the best way that we could've ended the evening.

Cheers,
Mr.B

If I were a parent...

If I were a parent...

...I would sneak into my child's room, while they were out with their mom and write messages like "I Love You" and "Watch Out For Bullies" and "Kiss Every Pretty Girl That You Can" and "Doing Well At School Is Worth The Hassle" in white-out, at the tops of his/her white walls.

At first glance, you wouldn't be able to see that anything was written there at all. But upon a closer inspection, you'd see the slightly raised surface of the words and the glossy texture of the letters and know that someone has secretly written a message there. A careful exploration of the room would reveal motto after motto, hidden away (with more coming, at odd times), waiting to be discovered.

If my darling child came to me and asked me if I wrote those things up there, I would flat out deny everything and blame it on pixies.

My goal would be to add a little magic to their short childhood and to instill in them the philosophies that I believe in, while I simultaneously teach them to be more aware of the world around them. That to an observant person, the world hides many wonderful secrets is a very important lesson to learn.

Note to self: When you have a kid, do this. But, cut it out before they reach age 10. After that, privacy and independance are more important to them. And you probably ought to not be sneaking into their room for any reason.

Cheers,
Mr.B

Empty Mailboxes.

The hardest part about quitting a volunteer job at a theater co-op is the days spent with empty emailboxes afterwards.

When you first get the gig, you're hounded by emails asking for random things.

"Can you pick-up coach our ensemble?"
"How do I get my password to the site?"
"We need to change our team name on the schedule."
"Our team wasn't on the schedule, what's up with that?"
"Our team fell apart. WHAT DO WE DO?!?"
"We've added some members."
"Where's that handbook that you're supposed to be working on?"

etc. etc. etc.

I got to be REALLY good at answering them, forwarding them onto the right people and if possible, solving people's problems for them. If anything, I would have to say that THAT was my pay for the gig. Being the person that people counted on, to get something done or to take care of them.

Now, though, that's entirely gone away. The only emails that I get are responses to emails that I sent out. Either nobody has any problems to be dealt with or they do and the emails aren't coming to me, anymore.

Most days, I would have 30 to 40 emails waiting for me, when I logged into my AOL account. Now,I'm lucky to have 12 waiting for me. And most of them are from MoveOn.org, breathlessly extolling me to do something, ANYTHING, to route the current president out of office.

I feel a definite loss there, friends. Giving up that job, saved me from making a choice that I didn't want to make and for compromising my job title, but it also effectively isolated me from the business of running the theater.

And my empty emailbox stands as a testament to that.

I'm so bored, with lack of theater business to do and lack of activity on the two message boards and lack of email, that I'm actually going to go do some office work. This is the humiliation that I am lowered to.

Cheers,
Mr.B

My Anus is Bleeding!

YEAH!! YEAH!! YEAH!!

"Funeral Blues" by W.H. Auden

Over on The Bee Board, a guy I don't really know very well was discussing a recent funeral that he attended for a friend. He found comfort in these words, which were apparently sampled in an ODB song. (ODB stands for Ole Dirty Bastard, who was a rapper, who apparently died.)

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Those words sounded familiar to me and I looked them up. They're from a W.H.Auden poem, that you might remember from the funeral scene in Four Weddings and A Funeral. I remember seeing that movie and being so moved by the poem that, I actually wept, in the theater. Such an appropriate actualization of grief, as I know it.

Here is the poem, in it's entirety, reprinted for you...

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden

The last paragraph, in particular, really moves me. The mundane removal of the grand, celestial things, absolutely conquered by the author's grief.

Later, when some of you become aware of recent developments, you'll ask me if I went searching for that poem because I was scared that i was dying. I will tell you then, as I tell you now, it's just a crummy coincidence that this is happening and that I'm reading poems about death.

Cheers,
Mr.B

Putting Some Other Things Down...

I had an epiphany last night.

I was sitting out on a friends back porch. Everyone other than me was smoking cigarettes and I was watching the planes slowly glide through the night sky, on a flight approach to O'Hare. One of my closest friends in the world was visiting Chicago and he smoked and chatted with everyone. It seemed, at the time, that everyone there, about 4 other guys, were all talking with each other. Nobody was talking with me and that left me a little time to watch the planes land and to organize my thoughts.

None of this is relevant to my epiphany. I'm just setting the peaceful, comfortable environment that I was in, when I figured something out.

I am putting down a lot of the things that I'm currently carrying around. I am lightening my load. I am taking on no future projects for the time being. I am finishing out my current obligations to people and then doing Something Else. I don't know what that Something Else is, but I'll figure it out, given a little time.

Before I'm done here, I will...
...Continue to do the Burlesque show. Honestly, I love it. Every month, I look forward to the process. The dress rehearsals. The brunch. The show. The afterparty. The Saturdays of the BBR are the best Saturdays, once a month.

...I am continuing my work with Charming. I love the intimacy of the three person shows. I love having more control over the shape and form of a show. I love hearing the things that Bob and Stacey say and responding to them. I love exploring the worlds that we create together.

...I will direct Harz's one man show, in the Spring. I like the things that Harz has to talk about, in his show. I like the form that we've discussed. I like the final product that we want to bring to the stage. This will likely be the last show that I direct/produce for a very long time.

...I want to go back to my project for David Shepherd that I never finished and see that through. It's incredibly selfish of me to offer my time to this man, and to have him waste his remaining days, weeks and months on this planet, waiting for me. I'll likely get no credit for that work. No financial return. But it will be one of the "good things" that I will secretly be proud of.

...I will continue coaching Speed Lemon. I love those kids. And they treat me very, very well. They're all dedicated, hard-working improvisers. And they'll try anything I throw at them. By process of elimination, I'm finding the things that work for them and, I think, shaping them to be a better team. I don't know if membership at the Playground is a goal for them. If it is, I'll help them go through that process. (Although, I now have a very low opinion of what membership means and how the co-op model works. I'm personally ill when I consider the time and effort that I put into a theater that works so hard to resist improvement.)

These are the things that I do now, that I will continue doing for a while longer.

These are the things that I'm putting down...
...I am emailing the PG to notify them that I won't be performing another HIMprov show on this coming schedule. Or ever again, for that matter. Producing a show (even one that seems to last only 20 minutes) is a chore that I don't want to undertake any time soon. Besides, I feel pressured to dedicate the next show to Alison, who is moving to Texas soon to marry a lawyer. She hasn't given me any indications that she can do or wants to do the show.
Each performance is supposed to center around a single character and celebrate their eccentricities. When I offered to postpone Edison's show for a schedule to give her this one, before she left. She was unimpressed. She couldn't commit to the date or the time. And her lack of interest stays with me. It tells me that I need to let this thing go.
I'll have to email the other members of the tiny fictional troupe and let them know that the show is closed, permanently. There is no future in producing shows meant to confuse, annoy or baffle the audience.

...I can't do any more Open Court shows at the Playground. It's not that the audiences are small (which they seem to be. Averaging 20 or so players, per performance.) or that the show is unsuccessful (it's about to turn 3 in January. Who else is running a 3 year show? Except Don't Spit The Water?). It's just that I don't want to do improv, much anymore. And that means that I don't want to perform it. Standing up in the booth, bringing lights and sound up is just about all I can tolerate anymore. And that's more work, than a pleasure. My resources are tapped. I can't do that show anymore.

...I am saying "no" to pick up shows, pick up coaching sessions, picking up any new shows or teams for the time being. If I'm not already committed to it, I'm not taking it on. It's not the projects that are lacking, it's my interest in walking around on a bare stage, trying to convince some stubborn, not listening human being that I'm her husband (as she previously stated) and not the fucking mailman (which she currently seems to think that I am).

...I also need to reassess my place on my team, International Stinger. A great big part of me feels like it's time to step aside there. I am so angry about the past three weeks of missed rehearsals (each one cancelled because of no-shows, some that were presented to the group, several that were not) that I have trouble rehearsing or performing. At a time when we NEEDED to be pulling tighter together, because one team member had quit, we actually started falling apart. And only 2 people were at every cancelled rehearsal. Me and Bob. I wish it had only been Bob. I fucking hate that I'm the only one at all of those cancelled rehearsals. It tells me that I'm not getting returned, what I'm giving. And that makes me very angry at these people that I am so used to trusting and loving.
So, maybe I need to step aside, some time soon. I need to get through the sit-in process, so that their numbers are strong enough for me to leave, without the team falling apart or losing membership status at the theater. I feel like I owe them that much. Leaving wouldn't be a big "fuck you" to them. I wouldn't want it to break the team up.
Or who knows?
Maybe a little time and a little re-dedication from the members of the team will make this feel good again. Like something positive and constructive. Something that I enjoyed doing, a long time ago.

One other things that I have realized...
...I'm never holding office at the Playground, ever again. I have ZERO interest in giving so much of myself over to a theater that is so crippled by it's own founding principles and by a few fear-driven members. I can't imagine wasting my time again for a theater, that resists improvement, as much as that one does.
What's the fucking point of protecting the membership's rights to make their own decisions, when they consistently choose to do nothing and to change nothing and to improve nothing?!? What they've won is a place to pay rent and bitch about the air conditioning. And to perform montages for one another. Because there's only a cursory effort made by a few select members to actually build up an external audience base.
It makes me laugh, that the theater is called a "co-op" when I see very little "co-op(eration) between any of the member ensembles, beyond agreeing to sweep and mop, once, every two months. The authority to build, strengthen and enhance the space and the mission statement and the theater's position in the larger city is wasted there. Every day.
And I'll not be a party to that.
They can continue the slow, steady backslide on their own, without me.

I'm pulling back from the improv community.
I'm battening down the hatches and turning the sign in my window from, "Yes, we're OPEN!" to 'Come back again! We're CLOSED" and letting things sort themselves out.
Without my involvement.

I putting these things down now. In order to free my hands up, to pick up other, more meaningful pursuits, when they present themselves to me.

Mr.B

// Chapter 3: An Officer Down.

This is Chapter 3 of an ongoing writing project. You should probably read Chapter 1 & Chapter 2, before reading this one. (Yes, I know that they're technically too short to be Chapters. It's just easier to track them, this way.)

An Officer Down.

"Bare-bones" sits across his desk from me. The light from the Chicago night, casts a bluish neon glow across his mug and his desk. He has the blinds open and his back to the window, daring someone to take a shot at him. Me? I woulda sat somewhere else, if it were my office. But, then again, someone would have a lot of sand to take a shot at the sargeants back. No matter how big a target it is.

Bare-bones rests his scarred, knuckled hands on his desk and breathes in heavy and quick. Just like the prizefighter that he used ta be. A quick breath in, just before he starts plugging away at some poor bastard. Right now, that poor bastard is me.

"This ain't gonna work, Calvin. What yer doin' here, it just ain't gonna work!" says Bare-bones. "I mean, Christ, yer spendin' yer nights harassin' the new District Attorney. Trompin' in his petunias and whatnot. How did you think this was all gonna end?"

I don't say a word. I wanna see where he's goin' with this.

"I got a call on the blower from Meehill. He tells me that someone has been talkin' to the rags about that screwup with his art shipment. That this 'anonymous source within the police department' is intimately familiar with Meehill's business practices and apparently has a beef with him. It's gotta be you, Calvin. Everybody in this town knows how much you hate Meehill."

"Meathead."

"What did you say?" I can see the thick, italian hair on his forearms bristle. He's just five words away from leaping across that fine, old, mahogany desk at me. His jaw locks in place, ready for the fight. "What did you call me?"

"I called the D.A., Meathead. That's what I think of him. His head. It looks like a hock of ham to me."

Bare-bones visibly relaxes in his seat. He leans back in his chair and runs his fingers through the wee stubble of his hair. I hear a choking sound that I realize is Bare-bones chuckling a little bit.

"Calvin. You can't go around sayin' stuff like that. I mean, it's all right in here. It's just you and me, but if the Polak or the BumbleBee heard you yappin', like that, I would have to hear about it. Are you talkin' to the Polak or the Bee?"

"Me and the Polak ain't speakin' to each other anymore. I heard a rumor that he's queer for Meathead. Don't print nothin' that the Meathead don't approve of. I DO talk to the Bee, though. He's kinda dumb and he can't hold a train of thought to save his life. But he ain't the Polak and somedays, I like him, just for that fact." That's probably the most I've said about either of those two printing press jockeys outloud. I'm usually not one for giving speeches. "Are we done here, Bare-bones?"

"I wish. We ain't done here by a long shot." he takes a bottle of rotgut out of a desk drawer and pours two tumblers full. I notice that mine has four fingers of hootch in it. His has two. He's loosenin' me up for something. "Meehill ain't the only one that is squaking about you. I got a call from Rampskin, too. He says that you roughed him up, in a dive, somewheres. Is that true?"

"Rampskin is a nance."

"That AIN'T what I asked you!" Bare-bones slams his fist on his desk. The hula girl doll that sits on the corner of his desk starts swayin' back and forth. For a minute, neither of us says anythin' at all. He watches me. I watch the hula girl, slowly wind down her dance. When she's done, I look over at him and speak.

"Yeah, I slapped him around a bit. He's got a big mouth. Gets him in trouble. He called me a fascist and un-American. So, I played him a little chin music for a bit. He was blotto. I didn't think he would remember that it was me, who gave him the Broderick."

"Well, he did. And he's out for blood. Yours, actually." Bare-bones takes his first pull off of his glass. Mine was empty before Little Miss Hey-I-wanna-lei-ya finished her little shimmy dance.

"Come on, Bare-bones. He's the damned treasurer! How much pull does he have?"

"Enough. At least, enough to get what he wants done. I'm bustin' ya back to leiutenant. You'll take a pay cut and you can expect to get a beat shift. You better polish the buttons on your blues. You're back on the beat." He throws back the rest of his drink and then pulls up the bottle to refill us both. He's waitin' to see what I will do. He ain't smilin' at me. This ain't any fun for him, either.

I can feel the anger risin' in my chest. Not at Bare-bones. When you get past all the growlin' and bitin', he's a pal. Down at Sam's, We used to drink out of the same bottle. Heck, his gal Wanda kisses me on the cheek every time I see her. We're close, is all I'm sayin'.

The anger that I'm feelin', though is a familiar one. It's for Meehill, the District Attorney and that wool-suited weasel, Rampskin. Neither one of those two highbinders has spent any time on the streets, unless it's to walk from the open door of their limo's into their fancy, high-rise apartments or City Hall. They're patsies. Nancies. Glad-ragged Daisies. And I could make Picasso's out of their faces in ten minutes, if I wanted to.

And that's when I see the microphone hidden amongst the tubes of the radiator and I know that there's more than just the two of us, sitting in this office. And that maybe Bare-bones and I aren't as close as I thought we were. I think I know the Chinese Angle, here.

"Keep thinkin' like that and you'll get a headache" says Bare-bones. His eyes are like ball bearings. Small, grey, metal. They don't give nothin' away. I'm suddenly glad that I ain't bettin' against them at a poker table.

"Is that the way you want it to be?" I says. I'm giving him a way out.

"That's the way that it is going to be. Whether I want it or not."

I stand up and lower the brim of my fedora.

"Well, then you'll be needin' this." I reach into my pocket and pull out my shield. I flip it open so that Bare-bones can see what I'm up to. His eyes widen. He's gettin' the picture. Slowly, but he IS gettin' it. I drop my buzzer into his trashbin. I unholster my gun, I open the chamber and let the bullets slide out, also into the trashbin.

"Now, come on, Calvin. Don't be a bunny." he says quietly. I close the chamber of my gun and set it down on his desk.

"You gonna turn over your roscoe's too?" he asks.

"Nah. Why should I? I paid for them, myself. And I got a legal license for them. This piece of junk is precinct issue." The pistol drops on his desk with a thud. I reach in my pocket and pull out my callbox key. I keep it on a key ring with a leather fob. Stamped onto the leather fob is an imprint of the Sherrif's badge from Deadwood, North Dakota. From the old west. I'd be lyin' if I tried to say that I didn't see myself as an old west sherrif sometimes. I hold it up taught and with one hard yank, the chain breaks and i drop the key into the trashbin too. The fob goes back in my pocket.

"You know that when this is done, there ain't no comin' back." says Bare-bones. Maybe he's offerin' me a way out, now.

"Let's hope so." I take up by glass of scotch and drain it all in one hard pull. "Thanks for the drink, Bare-bones. But you ought to not keep booze in your office, it attracts bugs." And I pick up the hula girl and fling it at the radiator bug as hard as I can. Call me lucky, but it's a dead shot, knocking the mic backwards through the radiator and clattering to the ground. I smile to think about the explosion of electronic feedback that some poor schmuck just caught full blast in his eardrums. If I was real lucky, Rampskin or the D.A. just got an ear full of Hell.

Bare-bones leaps up and starts bellowin' at me, my lovely, sainted mother and my ancestors. He's just blowin' off steam though. He don't like bein' caught with a bug in his office. Normally, he ain't no entomologist.

I walk over to the elevator and ask the kid who works in there to "get me oughta this Clubhouse." Behind me, I can hear Bare-bones yellin' and pullin' down his file cabinets in a full blown hissy fit. I flip the kid a dime and toussle his hair for him. I'm feelin' pretty good actually. Quittin' the force should've been a bum play, but it doesn't feel like one. It feels like the first smart thing I done in a long while.

And that's how I stopped bein' a cop and started bein' the lousy private eye that I am today. Pass me the beernuts, wontcha?



The Broken Jade Gambit: A Calvin Mann Mystery continues in Chapter 4: Worked Over. Read it here.

Look at this Picture: Funny Kid.

Found this pic online, looking for something else.

Had to post it here.



No you don't kid.
No, you don't.

Cheers,
Mr.B

Some Loss, Some Gain.

I've tried three separate times to post about this. But the words fail me. Either I bury the ideas under too many of them. Or I try to construct elaborate posts, seeking Deeper Meaning here. I don't think that there IS a Deeper Meaning here.
I think it is what it is.

On Tuesday, I quit being the Profcom Chair at the Playground Theater. An administrative position that I held for two months. I was sick of being the committee's bitch, slapped around by whoever wanted to yell that loudest in discussions (usually Rampson). I made myself a promise that I would quit, before I would add another douchebag to the committee. I knew that one guy who REALLY wanted to get on the committee would come in and slap me around, in tandem with Rampson. And I wasn't willing to spend a year, waiting for someone else to take over for me. A year of unpleasant, painful, unproductive misery for me. For zero gain.

That's the most concise explanation that I've been able to give anyone, yet.
And people have been asking.

So, I'm a quitter now.
I'm thinking about quitting several other things. I'm absolutely done with applying an inordinate amount of my time and effort, for people that don't match me on that.
I guess I'm in a quitting mood, right now.

In what I would consider to be a crazy example of Cosmic Balance, at the same time that I was leaving behind the theater administration, a Pretty Girl has appeared out of nowhere, in my life.

Hey Presto! Changeo! Voila, a Pretty Girl!

And this is a Blast from the Past, Dear Readers. An Oldie, but a Goodie. A girl that I had to considered to be lost and gone. Someone that I'd grooved with for a week or two, but who I lost touch with, shortly thereafter. Turns out, she was just geographically misplaced.

And now she's back.

Contact is restored. I am enjoying lovely emails with her during my work day. I haven't done a lick of work in 3 days now. Because I'm constantly monitoring my email, to see if she's written me. Suffice it to say, I enjoy the attention.

We have plans for a date together. A movie in the park, wine, cheese, chairs. I might even try to hold her hand, at some point. I plan on making other dates with her, as her social calendar permit.

I'm ready to give her as much of my time as she wants. My obligations to the theater have been cut down by half. And my schedule has just opened up, that much more. All she has to do, is ask, and I'm hers.

Who is this lovely, young lady, you are asking?
Well, a gentleman must have some secrets.

Maybe I'll tell you or show you, later.

I would be a poor student of the world, if I didn't remark on how odd it was to have one big thing leave me, just as another big thing came back to me. That timing is interesting, to me.

So, crazy week.
Some things were put down.
Some other things were picked up.
I adapt as best as I am able.

Cheers,
Mr.B


That little guy on the left is having a ball, man.

// Chapter 2: A Couple Of Dummies.

This is Chapter 2, to a story that started, right here.

"Sweet Baby Jesus!" I says and my cigarette falls out of my lips and is extinguished on the wet pavement below. I stop dead in my tracks and the rain keeps on fallin' down. A real blower. Somedays, I don't think it does anything but rain in this cruddy burg.

Ahead of me, standing in the streetlight of Sam's bar, is the little gal. The one I told you about. And she's waitin' for me. I ain't seen that dame in a whole mess of Sundays. I almost forgot about her. Almost, but not quite. There's a hole in my heart, shaped like her and although I've been tryin' to fill it with booze, it's still there. And it's still empty.

From twenty feet away, I can tell that she's leanin' against the doorway and shiverin' in the cold. The awning outside of Sam's place is more a suggestion of an awning. An idea of an awning. You would get more shelter from the rain, by thinkin' happy thoughts. I can see the dark smears of the rain on her red dress and I know she's been there a while. Probably waitin' for me.

We just stand there in the rain, like a couple of dummies.

In the shadows, I can't see her eyes, but her body language says that she ain't seen me, yet. She's just standin' there, waitin' for me. I'm so knocked down, by seeing her there, that I ain't took a single step, since I uttered one up to the Good Lord. The way that I figure it, she sees me and she's only playing possum a little bit here to see what I do. If I turn and walk away, she'll see it and know she got to me. If I turn and run, I might as well roll over and bare my belly to her. I think about jumping up and taking the fire escape out of here, but that rusty old thing makes more noise than a ragtime band, so that's pooched. I decide to wait her out. And right when I do that, she finally speaks, from under her hood and the mink stole that that jerk, Oswald, gave her.

"Cal! Cal! I knew you would come. I came down here looking for you. I didn't know where else to look for you. Come in out of the rain. Dontcha' got enough charity in your heart to buy a poor, sorrowful girl a drink?" She extends her arm to me, her delicate little hand, gloved. Big fat raindrops smack her on the back of the hand.

"Ah nuts to you and nuts to your drink, lady." And when I say it, she and I both know that she's got me. I'm a hooked fish and all she's got to do is reel me in. After that, it's all over but the floppin' around and gaspin' for air.

"It's cold out here, Cal. And I'm wet with the evening rain." She shivers a little bit, to show me what she means. I shrug and begin to take off my coat, obediant as a puppydog. I walk towards her, ready to give it over. I drape it over her shoulders. It swallows her up and she pulls it tight around her. She smells the collar, "I always liked the smell of your coat, Cal. It smells like a Man. A big, strong, man."

"Yeah, it's my new cologne. I call it 'Pushover'." And we enter the bar, to go get a drink. My big, meathook of a hand, resting on her shoulder. Half guiding her. Half being drug along.

I know, before seeing him, that Sam will never show the shock on his face, when I walk in again with this broken little dolly. And later, when I ask him for the keys to the back-room to "go count the hooch stock" he'll give them to me and never even mention that she goes back there with me. Niether one of us works for the FDA. Later, when the deed is done and she's satisfied and I'm hollowed out just a little more, I'll hand him the keys and if he's feelin' like the clergy, he'll pour me a stiff one and not even charge me for it. Purely medicinal, see?

Sam has seen a million joe's like me, shoulders stooped, caved in, walkin' in behind a tigress that's about to rip the guys throat out and then walk away, bored. He's seen it enough to know it when it walks in his door. And he's smart enough to avoid it, himself. Two slugs from a former ladyfriends .22 was enough to convince him to play it straight. Smart guy. No attachments. He didn't stick around for the other three slugs.

Me? I'm just a dumb palooka, so dumb, that he can't tell when he's headin' for a heartbreak. It's gonna be bad, this time. Real bad. I can already tell.

First, it'll be real good, for a little bit. Just enough to make me want it more often. But after that, there's nothin' good there for me. That's how it always goes. Same song over and over again, but I can't stay off the dance floor.

I should turn around and run. Grab my coat and leap out the door and hightail it to some flophouse where I'll hide out and count cigarette butts, until the sun comes up. And then tomorrow, I oughta find myself a new bar. Maybe down in Bronzeville, where the spooks play their jazz music and drink cheap gin out of mason jars. Lost in a smoke-skinned world of jungle music and pearly white smiles on all the gals there.

Sure. The whole world's fulla pretty gals. And somewhere out there's a little lady who looks at me and sees somethin' other than this crooked nose and this ugly scar. Who don't come to me, when some Good Time Charley has broken her, to take away part of me, to patch her up with. Somebody who's inclined to give me what I'm lookin' for, even if I don't know how to ask for it.

Lord, but she's so pretty. And I'm a fool for that smile and those, bright sad eyes. And those lips. I need to see them and kiss them again. I can already feel the softness of her hips on the palms of my hands.

Like I said, it's gonna get bad, tonight.

Real bad.



The Broken Jade Gambit: A Calvin Mann Mystery continues in Chapter 3: An Officer Down! Read it here!

Darth Vader Being a Smartass.

Thanks to Rene for finding this thing. I love it. First time I saw it, I laughed until I cried.

Enjoy.



You can find it on YouTube, by going here.

Brilliant.

Mr.B

One Charming Show!

God, what an exciting, THRILLING improv show, last night! I can't wait to do that again.

Last night, in front of a pretty full Playground house, Bob Ladewig, Stacey Hallal and I performed together as "Charming", our three person ensemble.
For the very first time.
We wore suits and ties. Stacey wore a nice evening dress (cut high for the warm weather) and we did approximately 6 scenes in 23 minutes. (The house manager, Matt Barbera, gave us a little extra time, because we were cooking with gas out there.)

Afterwards, people came up to me at the theater and at the bar, impressed with the show. Other improvisers, people who also do this work, had nice stuff to say about it. Honest appreciation. It was pretty great.

Here's how it all started out...

A month and a half ago, I was in a scene with my coach, Bob Ladewig. We were performing as International Stinger in a short set at Open Court for some reason and Bob was actually playing with us, instead of running lights and sound in the booth. Because of the circumstances of the scene, he and I found ourselves onstage together for large parts of the show. I really enjoyed interracting with him. I couldn't throw something at him that he wouldn't catch. And he remembered details and names and the layout of our invisible set. I really liked that about him. I wanted a chance to play some more with him.

Later, when no one else was around, I approached him about putting together a small 3 person group. Him, me and his girlfriend, Stacey. I've seen Stacey play too and I LOVE watching her onstage. She's pretty fearless and very resourceful. She can also shift easily between high status and low status onstage. I admire that flexibility.

He talked with her about it and she was game. I briefly suggested adding another girl, to balance things out, but they both preferred (and I had no problem with this) to keep it tightly at the three of us, for now.

When a show slot opened up, because of some other group cancelling, Charming accepted it. our first show was set for August 1st, 2006. Last night.

We picked the name collectively. Bob and Stacey were leaning towards "Dashing" as the name. It referred to our unanimous decision to dress formally for our shows, echoing our respect for the early days of improv and for our audience. I was a little less sold on "Dashing" because it also implied "speed" to me and I knew that we weren't going to be a fast-playing team.

I loaded the word "handsome" into the online thesaurus and it gave me nearly thirty or fourty synonyms. I selected ten or twelve of them and emailed them to Bob and Stacey. "Charming" jumped out at them and our name was selected.

(Bob has also said that he likes for the emcee on a given show night to say, "Bob L., Stacey H. and Mr.B are CHARMING." A clever little bit. If I weren't the host last night, we would've heard that bit for the first time. As it stands, someone else will have to do it.)

Because of their commitment to a previous show, we weren't able to schedule a regular rehearsal. In fact, we couldn't even schedule a pickup rehearsal. Busy, busy bees.

The day before our show though, we all had dinner together. We met on Monday at REZZA's on Clark for some fine Persian cuisine. We talked about life and improv and any old thing and eventually we talked about the show.

We decided that we didn't want to play surreal or absurdly fast.
We wanted to deal with actual people failing and succeeding and interacting.
We wanted real commitment to our characters, to bring them to life.
We wanted to explore actual philosophical ideas that we actually have, onstage.
We wanted it to be patient and grounded. With fewer, longer scenes.
We wanted to take our time out there and make the best possible use of our stage time.

I think that the pre-show dinner together is going to become a ritual for us. (Or at least I will suggest that to Bob and Stacey). Maybe we'll select a different restaurant each time, but the check-in and the show discussion will be the same.

At the theater last night, we were the last of three teams to perform. "Kids with Feelings" opened for us and they really hit it out of the ballpark, with their show. Fast, funny, smart, plenty of callbacks, crazy stuff. The audience really loved it.
After them, "The Nice Boys" performed and they played in a similar style. Fast verbally witty, lots of dialects, very physical stuff. The audience loved them too.
Waiting to go on, after them, I got a little nervous that our particular brand of play wouldn't work for this audience. They'd just seen two very good teams explore crazy, wild worlds together. Our show was going to feel like going from 60 mph to 20 mph, instantly.

We took the stage, while the house manager played music for us and took up positions onstage and just began. No suggestion. We didn't need one. We wanted to explore our own stuff. I think the audience was a little surprised by this lack of the formality. The audience, at first, didn't know what to make of us, but they quickly got into it. When the first "edit line" happened and we stayed onstage, the audience knew that they were watching something unusual.

Our first scene was set in an office, where Stacey was complaining about what a bad employee I was, without calling me out, directly. There was also a sub-plot about there being some sexual tension in the office. Which paid off in the last scene.
In the next scene, I confessed my vulnerability for women and my sheer, numbing loneliness to Stacey's macho, over-sexed man's man. We compared wallets. Hers was awesome. Mine, not so much.
In the next scene, Bob used his time teaching Stacey how to shoot a 44 magnum. She nearly blew her head off. Hilarious, stuff. Little Stacey waving a huge hand cannon around.
In the next scene, I returned to my childhood clubhouse to find Bob's pathetic character still living there. He nearly tortured me, but eventually agreed to let me help him.
In the next scene, which was a gem, the three of us were post-cold war spies enjoying cocktails and reminiscing about how we used to try to kill each other and fight for our separate countries. Poison-dart cigarettes, White Russian cocktails for the Russian spy and genuine lamentation of the decline of the Soviet government. Such a smart, smart, effortless scene. My favorite of the night.
In the next scene, Stacey was Bob's cook, she confessed love for him, while serving him breakfast. When he didn't return the feeling, she had a little freakout, turning the scene into a bit of a drama. Smart, smart, smart.
I tagged Stacey out and was Bob's characters valet. I dressed him and when he was facing away from me, allowing me to button up his business shirt from behind, I quietly and firmly kissed him on the back of the neck. (echoing stacey's previous scene). Things got a little awkward, but by assuring him that my intentions were pure, I finally got him to agree to try on some trousers for me. When he went to step into them, I knelt in front of him (in blowjob position) and we just looked into each other's eyes until he figured out what I was silently offering him and ran away. Another long, slow, patient scene.
At this point, the red light went on and as planned, we called back the first scene. Stacey's character got upset and quit, which elevated me to being Bob's boss and I fired him. I stood downstage, happily sipping my improv watercup and they made out by the water cooler on the way out of the office. (The implied sexual tension between them, in the first scene.)

Big applause.
Happy audience.
Lots of congratulations afterwards.

So there it is.

The origin of "Charming" and a detailed description of our first show. For when I want to come back later and see what we did. It's all here.

We're talking about applying for festivals together and maybe doing a run at the Skybox or at IO. Expanding our goals, a little bit. I would love to see any of that happen. I think that this particular combination of performers can go pretty far, together.

Cheers,
Mr.B